Bedside Manners
by Binsfeld
Summary: Anders is a wreck after the Qunari invasion, struggling to keep his clinic afloat. Help arrives unexpectedly to take the load off.


_Done for the DA Kink Meme. OP requested Anders being overwhelmed by work at the clinic, only for the rest of the gang to show up to help in unexpected ways. They didn't request a specific pairing, however, so that's still a bit up in the air as of this writing.  
_

* * *

**Bedside Manners**

The aftershock of the Qunari attack was felt throughout Kirkwall. It took days to clear the streets of bodies. Guards and Templars put their differences aside momentarily to get the grim business done, and residents of Dark Town and the Alienage leapt at the chance to earn a few coins washing the blood from the stones.

But long after all the graves were covered and all the fires were put out, the lantern in Dark Town remained lit far into the night, often into the next morning.

There were even more wounded than dead in the city, and most of them couldn't afford potions. The Chantry was full, made into a temporary infirmary, but refugees and runaway mages dared not step foot where they might be spotted, no matter how bad the injury.

By the end of the fifth day Anders was a wreck.

One of the apostates had helped for a day or so, then had mysteriously disappeared. Anders hoped it was because the boy had decided to leave Kirkwall in the confusion, and that he hadn't instead been carted off to the Circle. There was no way of knowing, however, and he was too busy and exhausted to spare the time to worry.

His body was beginning to complain about the abuse he was putting it through. The long hours were bad enough, but he was tapping into his reserves now to get so much healing done. His hands shook constantly from a near-overdose of lyrium potions, and he was often jolted awake out of much-needed snatches of sleep by the pained cry of a patient. He was going through the motions, driven by a dull stubbornness he thought had long been beaten out of him. Grim and worn out, he barely remembered to get a cup of water and some bread down before collapsing on his cot whenever he got a few spare moments.

There was a whispered warning in his mind, a faint echo of Justice, perhaps. It warned him of the consequences of his actions. But what else could he do? Turn these people away and let them die in their homes? The only reason he ate at all lately was because grateful families brought him what little food they could spare as thanks.

The cry of a child had him rolling automatically out of his cot at dawn of the sixth day, his body responding out of habit even if he was only partially awake. Eyes glued shut, feet clumsy with exhaustion, he stumbled out of the back room to check on his patients. He banged into the side of a table hard enough to jerk his eyes open, and he stood for a moment rubbing his bruised hip and looking around for the source of the cry. He'd sent the last child home yesterday, which meant it had to be a new... His thoughts trailed off and stalled as his tired brain struggled to make sense of what he was looking at.

Isabela was seated on a stool with a small child in her lap, his face stuffed with half a dinner roll- the type served at the Hanged Man. Isabela had apparently given it to him to shut him up while she

Anders blinked a few times, brain still lagging.

She was tying off a bandage on the boy's arm with surprising deftness, chattering on about some pirate story or other in a cheery voice that had the boy listening with wide-eyed fascination. Another little boy, his brother by the looks of him, stood chewing on another roll nearby, his burned face glistening from a salve. Finishing with her work, Isabela deposited the child into his mother's arms and spun on her stool to face Anders. She eyed him up and down with an unimpressed arch of her brow, and pursed her lips.

"You look like shit."

Anders reached up clumsily to rub at his eyes, too confused to be offended. Slowly the sleep fog on his brain was beginning to lift. "Isabela? What are you doing here?"

"Varric was wondering where you were, so I came to check and see if you were still alive and kicking. You've been avoiding us." She glanced around at the occupied cots. "I see you've been keeping busy."

"If any of you ever bothered to come down to Dark Town, you'd have known how bad things have been here since the attack," Anders snapped. His exhaustion was doing nothing for his temper. "You can tell Varric I'll be back for cards after I'm done here and not before."

"Right." She eyed him strangely for a moment, then hopped down from her stool and sashayed out without another word. Fuming, Anders snatched up his bag of lyrium and went to check on his patients.

* * *

"Here."

Anders jerked awake. He'd fallen asleep at one of the tables he saw patients on, and his neck was killing him from the awkward position. He sat up in his stool slowly, feeling older than he was, and stared uncomprehending at the plate hovering just under his nose.

The hunger had finally done its work. He was dreaming about food, of all things.

Then the smell of mutton and bread hit his nose, bringing him fully awake. His stomach gave a pitiful noise. He grabbed the plate, eyes following the hand offering it, up a muscled arm, all the way to a familiar face.

"For the love of Andraste, eat something before you fall down," Varric said, setting a flagon of wine down on the table. "Rivaini was right. You really do look like sun-baked shit, Blondie."

Anders was about to cram half the food down his throat in one go when guilt brought him up short. How could Varric just give him this in front of these people when they barely had enough to feed themselves?

He did a double-take. Every patient who was well enough was tucking into a similar meal.

"Courtesy of the Hanged Man," Varric explained when Anders turned an incredulous stare his way. "And my coin purse. Now eat before I force-feed you. And when's the last time you slept?"

Anders mumbled a vague answer, too busy stuffing his face.

"Slow down before you choke," Varric admonished, mouth tugging in a grin. "You grow up with wolves or something?"

Anders barely heard him. Even as he chewed, his eyes were glued in unblinking disbelief to the slender figure moving across the floor. As he watched, she began singing. It was a little off-key, but sweet, and the elven melody seemed to help the everyday tension of his clinic ease a bit. Merrill was moving around the room, sweeping with a heather brush, attacking cobwebs, dust, and dirt with a vengeance. Anders looked down at the table, then around at the other furniture. Everything was cleaner than it had been since

Well, ever. He never had the time to clean. How long had Merrill been here? How long had he been asleep? Interestingly enough, the cleaner surroundings seemed to be having almost as much of an effect on the patients as the food. Many of them looked a little more settled. Others who'd had trouble sleeping were dozing now. He watched Merrill, feeling a flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. How many times had he said unkind things to the girl? Hawke had tried before to point out that despite her faults, Merrill's kind heart was something to be praised. He'd waved this off before, caught up in his own personal feelings about the type of magic she wielded. Thanking her for this unexpected favor was going to be awkward.

Anders finished his meal, feeling decidedly better than he had in days. He turned to Varric, opening his mouth to thank him for the food, but the dwarf was already heading out, mission accomplished. One of the burn patients moaned pitifully, and Anders pulled his mind quickly back to his work. He washed his hands in a bowl and went to check on the cots' occupants.

When Merrill was finished with her cleaning spree, she offered Anders a cheery farewell, patted an elf child on the head, and pranced off, claiming Hawke needed her help with a job. By the time Anders turned from his current patient to attempt gratitude, she was gone.


End file.
